


No, You Can't Use My Wi-Fi

by meadowsandapathy



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, M/M, simmons and grif battle it out via wi-fi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-04
Updated: 2014-04-04
Packaged: 2018-01-18 05:09:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,414
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1416259
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meadowsandapathy/pseuds/meadowsandapathy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Damn Simmons if he wasn’t a good-natured college student, paying for his own apartment and internet. Damn Simmons to hell if he would let some dickwad use his internet to watch porn.</p>
<p>((Based on a tumblr post where one man uses another's Wi-Fi to torrent porn))</p>
            </blockquote>





	No, You Can't Use My Wi-Fi

Richard Simmons was a good man. He was top of his class in the college of his dreams and tried his very best to contribute as much as he could to society. He even bought his own goddamned Wi-Fi, and like the little nerd he wholeheartedly admitted he was, he named it the ‘batcave.’

To think that, despite all of this, he would be staring at the network of Wi-Fi links, one name in particular fixed in his vision. The words were poison to his beautiful morning.

It was titled, “I’m using the batcave to torrent porn.”

Top of the names list. It was taunting, it was insulting, and it was fucking infuriating. Some piece of shit was using his own Wi-Fi to look up disgusting videos. His Wi-Fi. The idiot had his own network, it was evident by the black text title next to the little black lock that deemed the network locked.

He went to his options and clicked on the ‘change name’ bar. His current title was severely lacking that one lock, that one secure option that all of the other networks had. Still, adamantly, he typed a new name with the most sarcasm that pixelated words could muster, his teeth grinding in annoyance.

“Very funny,” it read. “How do I get that lock?”

Simmons hit save and waited, mouse hovering over the Wi-Fi list, wondering if the guy would notice. His finger tapped the hard plastic of his computer, an irregular beat in the stagnant morning air of his apartment. He refreshed the page once. No change to the asshole’s network name, though the text below his own was a different length than before. He read it aloud to himself.

“Dude, just call geek squad.” He tapped the computer’s shining surface once more. Should he? He already felt mildly embarrassed that he already didn’t know how to lock his own damn connection. However, upon rereading the first title once more, his frustration got the best of him and he was already dialing the number (that he looked up on google). A tired voice answered on the other end and, as his moderately timid voice asked his simple little question, the voice turned sharply into the most sarcastic tone he had ever heard.

It was worth it. The call was as informative as any call would get and his phone screen lit up, signaling the end of the conversation. Simmons quickly entered a new password into his network using the directions given to him – he wrote them down neatly on a lined piece of paper – and refreshed the network.

No changes to any of the titles once again, but he smiled to himself, smug and large, upon seeing the lock icon next to his secure connection. He typed a new title, fingers hitting keys loudly.

“Hah, suck on my secure connection.” He left the window with a triumphant ‘whoop’ and leaned back on his couch, the furniture groaning from the sudden movement. Success, he thought, no more porn torrenting. My password is long and untouchable.

Simmons stared at the screen, unsure of what to do now. Ten seconds passed, then twenty.

He pressed refresh, and the first title was actually different; it read, “I bet you actually called geek squad.”

An embarrassed flush spread on his cheeks and he felt angry. The last listed name changed, too, but he ignored it, as well as the dick at the top. “Like he would know, anyways,” Simmons said to himself, standing and trudging to the kitchen. He decided to make some coffee – a new brand that his mother recommended and – shit, it was pretty obvious that he called geek squad. His shoulders slumped as he put the damn coffee in the damn pot and dammit he needed to read it again, just to be sure he didn’t read it wrong.

He frightened himself with how quickly he returned to his laptop, the networks list still up and waiting, newly refreshed. Something was different, though. The top name said:

“Whatever. Your iTunes library sucked.”

His jaw dropped. This piece of – 

Before he could convince himself not to, Simmons replied, his hands eager to defend his favorite band (and the only one on his iTunes page).

“You got a problem with the DMB?”

He hit save and his gut dropped immediately. He sounded insulted, even in the pixels on the screen. But now he could only wait, seeing as the guy could’ve already read it. Simmons rubbed his hands nervously, returning to the kitchen as his coffee ceased brewing. The smell was strong and permeated through the room, a bitter aroma to match the bitter little text battle he seemed to be having. He winced, but whether it was from the hot cup in his hands or the understanding that he had to go back to his computer, he couldn’t discern.

The cup was slammed down upon returning to the computer.

“Yeah, it stands for Dis Music Blows.”

“WHERE THE FUCK DO YOU LIVE,” he replied, a mere five seconds after reading the title. He seethed, breathing through his nose and certainly misplacing the glasses hoisted there. Fucking idiot thought he could torrent porn on Richard Simmons’ network? Stupid son of a bitch thought he could make fun of his (severe) lack of talents using Wi-Fi, and then tell him his music taste was bad?

Oh, this guy was fucking dead – the top title updated one final time, reading “Floor 3, room 307. Come get me,” and Simmons was out the door, heading upstairs, feet-on-tile contact sending chills up his back. It was way too fucking early for this shit, but the anger in his head completely demolished any sign of patience for idiocy like this.

But something felt wrong. His heart was pounding faster and harder than his own footsteps. The floor was colder than he remembered and he could swear his face felt like it was burning.

The door was an oaky-brown against the maroon walls of the hall. 307 sat hauntingly above a piece of paper reading ‘Dexter Grif’ and he wondered if he should just turn around and forget all about it, but oh shit his hand was reaching up to the door and oh god he started knocking.

It was hesitant at first. The wood was barely touching his fist, and yet again, frustration burned from his core and the knocking switched to very, very loud bangs. He fixed his eyes into a tight glare, foot tapping impatiently on the beige floor and prepared for the same look from the man inside.

The door opened with a small click and Simmons nearly fainted.

A tall, tan man with messy brunette hair and a cup of coffee in hand leaned on the frame of the door, a smug (more like sultry) grin showing perfectly white teeth. An orange shirt displaying their shared college title was fitted to his body and the glare that he had dissipated in a flash. The man was good looking. Very, very good looking, and although he opened his mouth, no words came out to express any events that took place beforehand.

The grin didn’t leave the man’s, or rather Grif’s face when he brought his cup up for a sip. “Can I help you with something, geek squad?”

Simmons lost. It was a fucking battle over network security and he lost, damn him, because now he was being sized up by the most handsome man he ever saw and couldn’t say a damn word about it. Instead, he just let words fall out of his mouth because he was a fucking idiot like that.

“Uh, nothing, no, you’re hot, I have to leave.”

“Smooth.”

He turned around, shoulders slumping and ears picking up Grif’s light laughter as he started for the stairs.

“Wait, aren’t you going to come inside?” The question shook Simmons and he halted in his tracks.

“What? Why would I do that?”

Grif gestured to his messy room (which was littered with dozens of socks, Simmons noticed). “You’re gonna watch porn with me, right?”

Simmons marched right up to him, almost nose-to-nose, and said, “You’re the worst kind of person,” then stomped down the stairs, though not before hearing Grif yell down to him.

“Call me!”

Damn him if he didn’t put his phone number up on the network list and waited patiently, and fuck it all if he wasn’t excited when his phone rang precisely five minutes and thirty three seconds later.


End file.
